


tooth & nail

by maledict



Category: GOT7
Genre: Bullying, Extremely Dubious Consent, Frottage, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Sanctuary AU, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7863742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maledict/pseuds/maledict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tor might be gone, but Jinyoung isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tooth & nail

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone else want a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad sequel to the Sanctuary CF? No? Just me?
> 
> Okay.

  


“Hi,” says Bambam, in English.

“Hey,” says Mark. A bruise smears across his left cheek, half-hidden by a cotton patch. His lip is busted. Bambam can see the scab pull when he speaks. It can’t be comfortable.

Bambam is uncomfortable too, but for a different reason. “Are you okay?”

Mark nods. Then he says, “You look good,” and gestures to Bambam’s face.

“Thanks.” Bambam smiles awkwardly. “Got tired of buying new glasses.”

Mark drops his eyes.

“Listen—” Mark starts, stops. “I’m sorry. About Jinyoung. I didn’t know he’d make you watch something like that.”

Bambam shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

Mark’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t say anything. Bambam watches all his handsome, damaged angles, and wonders what's supposed to happen next. His fingers pinch nervously at the inside pocket of his letterman jacket. Now that Tor and Bank and James are gone, Bambam isn’t sure how he’s going to fight back. He’s not sure if he wants to.

He asks, “Are you gonna be okay?”

Mark nods again. “I’ll be fine,” he says.

That seems to be the end of it, but Bambam doesn’t want to leave it like that. Mark is still looking at him. Bambam bites his lips.

“Um,” he says. “Do you—wanna walk together with me? After school?”

Slowly, Mark smiles, for the first time since Bambam’s met him. For a moment, he doesn’t look so sad.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

Jinyoung and his gang are milling right outside Bambam’s first class of the day, clumped up like ants. Waiting for him, Bambam realizes. He freezes up and glances down, averting his eyes on instinct, but then he remembers, no, he's not going to shrink away, and forces himself to raise his head.

When Jinyoung catches sight of him, his eyes narrow, crinkling faintly at the corners. The cuts Tor had given him had scabbed over into a dark burgundy, the bruises yellowing. 

He looks Bambam up and down, and Bambam feels it like a physical thing, a long, slow scrape.

“Yah,” Jinyoung says. “What’re you staring at?”

Bambam doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t look away, either. He remembers Mark curled up against the concrete wall. What James had said. _Be strong._

A moment passes. Jinyoung pushes off the wall and steps toward him.

Bambam is taller than him by a hair, but Jinyoung’s icy gaze makes him feel small, unimportant. It’s hard not to flinch.

“I said, what’re you staring at?”

He snaps his fingers next to Bambam’s ear.

“You deaf?”

“No,” mumbles Bambam. He stumbles over the Korean. Tries to sound confident. “I just—I need to go to class. You’re blocking the door.”

Jinyoung tilts his head. A hint of a smile creases his cheek. “This door?”

Bambam nods jerkily.

Jinyoung’s hand claps down hard on his shoulder, and Bambam startles. His fingers squeeze tightly, the point of his thumb digging into the hollow beneath his collarbone. It hurts.

“I'm sorry,” Jinyoung says, in mockingly formal language. “My mistake. You’d better go in, or you’ll be late.”

Bambam stares at him in total confusion, wincing at the discomfort, but he knows better than to stick around. Jinyoung lets go, stands aside, and Bambam hurries past. Several pairs of eyes follow him. He pretends it doesn’t unsettle him as much as it does.

 

* * *

 

After school, Bambam waits for Mark by the wide stone steps. He's there for a while, braced against the iron railing, until all of the students have left, and it’s unbearably raw in the biting winter chill, and disappointment is thick and cloying in the back of his throat.

He turns around to leave. There’s someone there, when he does, but it’s not Mark.

There's a skull on his face mask.

Bambam tries to run, but he’s caught around his middle, thrown to the ground. Face mask takes his bag. His wrists are forced behind his back, zipped together with plastic ties, and he's manhandled up again.

“Walk,” he says, so Bambam walks, until they reach the barren, colorless underpass. Jinyoung is waiting for them there, flanked by the rest of the his gang, and Bambam is thrown down next to a body who he realizes is Mark—head limp, slumped and kneeling.

Jinyoung takes the bag from his lackey and rummages through it, eventually spilling the contents out onto the beige concrete. Books and papers go flying. Finding nothing of interest, he tosses it away and squats down in front of them, elbows on his thighs, walled in by bundled-up bodies. Bambam scrambles back until his shoulders hit the freezing concrete wall of the underpass, heels of his shoes scraping uselessly on the rough ground. Beside him, Mark is still and quiet, chin to his chest, but awake and aware; his eyes are hooded under the curtain of his brown fringe. He doesn’t look up.

Jinyoung reaches forward—Bambam flinches—and retrieves a leaf from his hair, flicking it aside carelessly.

He asks, “How was class?”

Dread prickles up and down Bambam’s arms. He blinks. The question is rhetorical, he knows, but Jinyoung is looking at him like he's expecting some kind of reaction. Bambam wants to refuse him one, but he's not that stupid.

"What—what do you want?”

Jinyoung blinks very slowly. He replies, "What I want?"

He sounds contemplative. Bambam waits for an answer. Jinyoung’s gaze burns into him, but then it slips to the side, onto Mark.

“Yah, betrayer,” he says. “You traded me in for _this_ idiot foreigner?”

Mark is silent.

He looks back to Bambam, gaze knife-sharp. “You think contacts and different hair is going to make it all go away?” Suddenly, his hand snaps out, grabs Bambam’s chin. “You think you’re safe now? That just because you look better, you get a free pass?”

Bambam tries to twist away, but Jinyoung holds him fast.

“You're right,” Jinyoung says, after a beat. “I do want something.”

Jinyoung’s fingertips are cold. His grip is steel, unforgiving. 

“I want you to apologize,” he says.

Bambam's brain grinds to a halt. "What?"

“Apologize," Jinyoung continues, "for trying to be someone you're not.”

Panic is beginning to build just beneath Bambam's sternum, reckless and wild, but he steels his nerves and forces himself to bite down on an unwise reply. Jinyoung isn’t right, isn’t normal, but Bambam’s dealt with his type before: the fastest way to get them to leave you alone is to agree with them. Surrounded like this, he doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m sorry,” he says, dropping his eyes.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry for—” Bambam swallows. “Pretending.”

Jinyoung lets go of his chin to squeeze his shoulder. The pad of his thumb beneath the clavicle, pressing in. Just like earlier.

“Good,” he says. “You should be.”

He turns back to Mark. Assessing. 

“You, though. I don't think you learned your lesson at all, Mark-hyung.”

Finally, Mark raises his head, looking Jinyoung right in the eyes.

He says, quietly, “I wish you’d stop hurting people."

Jinyoung smiles. Small, controlled. He puts a fingertip to Mark's heart, over his jacket.

“You're too soft,” he says, eerily calm. “I knew you were soft, but I let you in anyway. I protected you, because you asked me to. You don't get to walk away from that. You don’t get to drop me just because you feel bad for one pathetic little stray." He jerks his head at Bambam, the tone of his voice at odds with the violence of the gesture. "What makes him so special, hyung? What is it about him that you like so much?”

Mark’s eyes dart over to Bambam, then back to Jinyoung, defiant. “He’s not like you.”

Jinyoung shoves him back. Mark’s shoulders thump against the wall. He wheezes.

Heavy silence coats the air for a long, uneasy moment.

Then Jinyoung stands and turns, as if coming to a decision. “Go home,” he tells the rest of his gang.

They’re so well-trained, they don’t even argue. They just disperse, as if getting off a work shift early, kicking pebbles into the river as they go, disappearing up the frost-ravaged path, toward the busy street. Happy to forget.

Bambam doesn’t feel safer like this. It isn't better, it's just more personal. Jinyoung is too unpredictable. He could do more damage on his own than with his gang. Less witnesses, less—accountability. Bambam had seen what he'd done to Tor: he'd fought dirty. If he hadn't been stopped, he would've done whatever it took to win.

“You always listened so well, Mark-hyung,” says Jinyoung, once they're all gone. He's standing in front of Mark, looking down at him like a disappointed parent. “What went wrong?”

Abruptly, he grabs Mark’s head by the nape of his neck and yanks him forward, off-balance. Mark manages to twist to his face to the side, but his cheek still ends up scraping against the zipper of Jinyoung’s jeans. His eyes flutter closed and then open again, and Bambam feels his gut liquify and clench in something like nausea. He’s afraid to look up, to look at Jinyoung’s face, so he just stares at Mark instead, even if looking at _this_ seems worse, like peering into some kind of raw open wound.

“Jinyoung-ah,” Mark says, still pressed tight to Jinyoung’s hips by the fingers tangled in his hair. The endearment seems jarringly out of place. One of his hands is gripping Jinyoung’s thigh. “Stop. You don’t have to do this.”

He can't help it. Bambam sneaks a glance up and immediately freezes. Jinyoung’s eyes are on him, narrowed slivers of coal.

A soft smile curls at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t know this about him, did you?”

Bambam stares mutely.

Jinyoung’s fingers caress Mark’s face, the sharp cut of his jawline.

“Did you?” he repeats.

Mark’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes squeezed shut. “Don't,” he whispers. “Jinyoung-ah.”

“Why don’t you tell him, hyung,” Jinyoung says. 

Mark’s mouth twists again, in that same guilty way. Jinyoung’s foot nudges at the crotch of his jeans, between his spread thighs, and Mark bows his head. Jinyoung's smile grows, showing a flash of teeth.

Bambam isn’t sure what he’s thinks he’s witnessing, but it can’t be _real_. It’s too crazy to be real.

“Wh—what,” he stutters, a broken record. He’s so out of his depth, it’s beginning to feel like he’s drowning.

Mark opens his mouth, as if to say something, but whatever it is must get caught in his throat; nothing comes out.

"It’s a shame.” Jinyoung sighs. “People will do just about anything for you when they like you, but the second they find someone new, they won't hesitate to walk away. Isn't that right, Mark-hyung?”

Jinyoung slaps Mark’s cheek to make him open his eyes. “Yah, pay attention.” He points at Bambam. “Is that really what you like now? Your ideal type? Nerdy, innocent, nice?”

Mark’s eyes find his. Bambam’s head swims; he stares at him. “You—”

“He wants,” Jinyoung enunciates, savoring each phoneme, “to fuck you.”

Bambam blinks rapidly.

“But,” he says, stops. He tries to remember that old twist of hurt. “But that’s wrong.”

Mark looks down and away.

Jinyoung's eyebrows raise; he utters a quiet, mocking laugh. “You really didn’t know? _Aigoo_ , that's embarrassing. Really. Mark-hyung’s good at keeping secrets, isn’t he? What to do, what to do.”

Then his eyes turn cold; he looks back at Mark. After a deliberate, scrutinizing pause, he shoves Mark away from him, toward Bambam.

“Why don’t you show Bambam how much you like him, hyung?”

The meaning of the words doesn’t really register until Jinyoung is kicking him in the ribs. Pain explodes in his side, sharp and mean; Bambam crumples forward with a shout, unable to clutch at the bruise like he wants to. His hands twist uselessly at the small of his back as he gasps for air, winded.

“Show him,” Jinyoung tells Mark, conversationally.

“ _Jinyoung_ ,” Mark snaps, half-pleading.

“Do you want him to get hurt again?”

Mark glares at Jinyoung, furious—but when he glances over at Bambam, the expression melts into something weary, with dulled edges.

Bambam is at a total loss. His side smarts with every shallow breath. Before he can open his mouth to beg, Jinyoung slaps him across the face, and he reels, blinking back tears.

“ _Okay_ , okay,” Mark hisses, shuffling closer on his knees. He takes an audible breath.

Jinyoung starts circling around, predatory. 

“Quickly,” he says, sounding bored.

Bambam doesn’t have much of a choice, but between Mark’s mouth and Jinyoung’s boot, he knows which one he’ll take. He nods once, chest tight; his heart feels like it’s about to skip right out of his ribcage, grow wings or claws, pry itself away. Escape somehow. 

Mark whispers, “I’m sorry,” in English, and then he’s leaning in. Bambam squeezes his eyes shut.

He flinches at the soft touch of Mark’s lips against his, prepared to hate it.

But it just feels like—like lips.

It’s awkward without the use of their arms, but Bambam isn’t sure what he’d even do with his hands if he had them free. He’s never kissed anyone before. Nobody’s ever kissed _him_ before. Not for real. There was Lisa, years and years ago, but they were just kids; her small lips on his hadn’t been anything like this. Not even close.

In all the dramas, the male lead always touches the woman’s jaw, or holds her waist, presses her to him; her arms go around his shoulders, or—her small hands cradle his neck, soft and sweet. If he could, would Mark hold his waist, cup his jaw—would he hold him in place and kiss him like that?

Like normal people. Like a man and a woman.

Bambam jumps when he feels the sharp toe of a boot press into the center of his back, pushing him forward. He shuffles to keep his balance, but it only brings his and Mark’s bodies closer together. Their mouths bump messily, then realign.

With a dull start, Bambam realizes he can feel Mark getting hard, right there, up against his thigh.

The feeling sends an unexpected jolt down his spine. His mouth opens on a guttural, surprised sound, and what had been a chaste, awkward kiss, suddenly isn’t. Mark inhales and pulls back, unsure. Bambam blinks his eyes open. He feels a little dazed; Mark’s face is so close—the stormy color of his eyes, the pupils huge and dark, the soft pink of his lips.

It—wasn't supposed to be like that. Bambam had forgotten to stop.

Mark remembers for him, though.

“There,” he says, dully. “He knows. Now can you let us go?”

Jinyoung had stopped circling to watch; he's standing over Bambam's shoulder, just behind.

“I think you like him more than that, hyung.”

A cool hand rakes its way through Bambam’s hair, urges his head forward, and Bambam has no choice but to kiss Mark again.

Their mouths reconnect. He has no idea how this is supposed to work, but it seems like Mark does: his mouth gently coaxes, never pushing, still chaste and close-lipped. Jinyoung’s fingernails caress his scalp; a warning. Bambam opens on a shivering flinch, a tiny gasp, just enough.

Mark makes a wounded little noise and presses forward, licking tentatively between Bambam’s parted lips. Their hips press flush together, and Bambam shudders. It's electrifying. He wants more, but he isn’t sure what to do next: he tries touching his tongue to Mark’s, tries to get a good angle. Like the ones in the dramas. But it comes out all wrong—their noses bump, teeth knock. Bambam shies away, flushing hot with embarrassment. Suddenly, it’s uncomfortable, stale and wrong and manufactured. For a moment, he wants to laugh, it’s just so _insane_ , but Jinyoung’s still watching, and that makes something inside him squeeze up like a vice: he doesn’t make a sound.

Mark draws away. “Hey,” he murmurs, soothing. “Just move with me, okay?”

Bambam nods. He trusts Mark. He tries to relax.

Mark persuades Bambam’s mouth into sweet, slow kisses, steady and sure. Like this, Bambam falls easily into his rhythm. It reminds him of the waves lapping gently at the sand at Koh Samet—in, out. It’s warm like a day at the beach, too. Summery. Bambam imagines lying on a towel, in the shade, Mark over him. Mark’s tongue curling against his. The languorous stretch of his mouth. They could take all day on that island, just kissing.

It would be nice.

He gets a little lost in the soft, wet noises of their mouths meeting. The hypnotizing sensation of it. Mark’s slightly labored breathing, the warmth of his body, his proximity—the faintest, sweetest drag of friction. Heat builds inevitably, shamefully, between Bambam’s legs.

He chases the feeling, the fantasy. Without thinking, he rocks forward, pushes right up against the hard bulge in Mark’s jeans.

Mark exhales in surprise. Their mouths separate, shiny, kiss-swollen. Bambam looks down between them, vision fogged and glassy, and watches with a sort of detached fascination as their clothed cocks rub together.

Mark is watching too. Neither of them stop. Bambam forgets, again, that he's not supposed to like it. Mark glances up at him with murky, lidded eyes, and Bambam looks up too, completely dizzy with arousal. He feels like he’s suspended in warm, deep water. Floating somewhere inside of himself. A single white canine digs into Mark’s bottom lip as he flexes his hips, pushes more firmly against Bambam—rolling into him, mimicking the rhythm of their mouths. He ducks forward again, nosing against Bambam’s cheek to get at his jaw.

Bambam turns his head to the side and lets him.

He must be completely out of his mind to let this happen. To enjoy it and push back. How difficult would it be, to just get to his feet and run? Would Jinyoung go after him? But he'd be leaving Mark behind—with Jinyoung—alone. Again. No, he can’t do that. Mark had saved him. Mark needs him.

Mark wants him.

Bambam’s knees sting. The cold had numbed him before, but now he’s warm, too warm. He aches all over—his ribs, his legs, his cock.

He feels a finger trail up the nape of his neck.

“I thought you'd do it, for Mark,” comes Jinyoung's calm, measured voice, right in his ear. "But I didn't think you'd actually _enjoy_ it."

A second set of teeth scrapes against his neck, and a high, broken whine forces itself out of Bambam’s throat; Jinyoung's kneeling behind him, fitting his knees against Bambam’s shins, pressing in, crowding him. An overwhelming flood of heat rushes through his body. It makes his dick jump pathetically, and he knows Mark can feel it. It's too much. He wishes he had his hands free so he could touch himself. He wishes Mark could touch him. His head lolls backward, hitting Jinyoung’s shoulder.

Maybe Jinyoung could touch him instead.

This is crazy. He must be crazy. He hates Jinyoung—hates his dark, flinty eyes, the way they track and stare—and he doesn’t even _know_ Mark, not really. This isn’t supposed to happen. He’s not supposed to show weakness. He’s supposed to be strong, like Tor. He’s supposed to stand up for himself.

Pathetic. 

Jinyoung sucks a bruise at the join of his jaw and neck. Mark kisses gently at his Adam’s apple.

Bambam shakes between them both.

“Relax,” murmurs Jinyoung, and it almost makes Bambam angry: someone like him doesn’t deserve a voice like that. It’s too nice. It makes him sound like a good person.

Mark’s steady, swaying rhythm is beginning to unravel. He finds Bambam’s lips again and kisses him, messy and careless. Bambam arches against him, trying to grind up against the rigid heat of his cock, get them lined up just right. He’s making noises he’ll hate himself for, later—thin and splintered, like he can barely breathe.

One of Jinyoung’s hands snakes up to hold his throat in place while the other splays flat against his stomach, a firm pressure, preventing him from rubbing against Mark like he wants to.

It’s so unfair. He wants—

The tops of Jinyoung’s fingers press just below the waistband of his jeans.

“Please,” Bambam whimpers. Can't help himself.

Jinyoung’s voice is low in his ear, his breath hot and humid. “Please what?”

“Just—please,” whispers Bambam. His eyes flicker open to look feverishly at Mark, who keeps darting in for more kisses, stealing them away between broken half-words, like if it’s all he can get, he’ll take it. Bambam can’t see Jinyoung. He’s not sure he wants to. He just _feels_ him, too close.

“Hyung. I—” Bambam cuts himself off. Mark kisses him again. Licks delicately at his lower lip. “I-I mean, Jinyoung-ssi.”

The hold on his throat tightens, and Bambam goes rigid, locking up in fear. His own mistake terrifies him. Stupid. He shouldn't have called him that.

Jinyoung puts his mouth on Bambam’s neck, right where his fingers press into the skin, bitten rosy-pink.

“Please, hyung, what,” he says.

A shudder rolls through him. “Oh, my god—touch me, can’t you just—”

“Ask nicely.”

Bambam chokes it out. “Please touch me?”

Jinyoung unzips Bambam’s letterman jacket. He loosens his tie, unbuttons his cardigan. Hikes up the ironed shirt with one hand, passing a palm over the purpling bruise he’d left with his boot. He continues up, across the raised keys of his ribs, finds a nipple, circles it with a cold fingertip. Bambam jerks in his grip, mouth opening on a moan: Mark swallows the sound hungrily. Jinyoung pinches sharply at the nub, pulls on it, and Bambam lets out a cracked, startled cry, arching away from Jinyoung and into Mark.

Mark makes a low, rough noise. He shoves himself desperately against Bambam’s thigh and breaks the kiss, panting heavily against Bambam’s mouth. Their lips brush, so close, slippery with spit. “Wanna touch you too,” he says, English again, his voice deep and thick with want.

Bambam wants it too. Wants it so bad. Wants Mark’s hands on him, his hands and Jinyoung’s, together, messing him up, all at once. He’s gonna go out of his mind with how much he wants it.

Jinyoung lets go of Bambam’s neck to grab a fistful of Mark’s hair, yanking his head away.

“What was that?”

Mark swallows, is silent.

“You're in Korea,” Jinyoung says. “Talk like it.”

Mark hisses and nods, but doesn’t apologize. He’s not sorry. Jinyoung’s hand doesn’t leave his hair. Mark’s looking somewhere over Bambam’s shoulder with heavy, glazed eyes.

“Okay,” he says instead. A challenge. _Make me._

Jinyoung pulls him forward.

They kiss over Bambam’s shoulder—sloppy, intimate. Jinyoung sucks Mark’s tongue into his mouth, bites at his lips, his chin, what he can reach of his jaw. Bambam’s chest aches. He hates that he feels forgotten, left out, hates how much he craves the attention. He dares to nose against Jinyoung’s cheek, feels the motion of his jaw as it hinges up and down. Mark’s eyes flicker half-open to watch him.

Bambam catches a flash of teeth and a pained grunt. When Mark draws back, the scab on his lip has split, and he’s tonguing over it, swiping the blood back into his mouth.

Something curls within him, crude and insistent. He makes an involuntary noise and struggles to lean forward. Jinyoung slaps his stomach in warning, but he does it anyway, pushing his mouth to Mark’s. The glide of their lips together is smooth and tastes like copper. When Bambam draws back, Mark’s mouth is faintly orange-red; he’s staring at Bambam like he's never seen him before, eyes wide, pupils blooming inky-black.

Jinyoung’s tongue finds the line of Bambam’s throat again. He licks up the column of it, teethes at the skin; Bambam bares it for him, bucking up against Mark in tiny, staggered thrusts. His breath comes shallow and fast—short, cut-off little moans, gathered up high in his throat. It feels so good. Every touch. Like fireworks, all up and down his body. It shouldn’t feel so good.

“Jinyoung-ah,” Mark mumbles, hoarse.

Jinyoung stops stroking Bambam’s belly to shove a hand between them. He fumbles open Mark’s flies and pulls him through the slit in his boxers—Bambam looks down, he can’t help himself, sees Mark’s flushed, pretty cock jutting out from his jeans. He’s leaking so much, getting sticky strands of it everywhere; then he’s fucking shakily up against Jinyoung’s palm, against the clothed ridge of Bambam’s dick, leaving wet streaks on every drag.

Mark drops his forehead down on Bambam’s shoulder. He utters a choked groan into the crook of Bambam’s collar as Jinyoung grabs him tightly and starts to pump, rucking Bambam’s shirt all the way up to his chest.

Mark shudders, muscles trembling. His dick pulses, jumps, starts to come.

Bambam feels the sticky hot warmth of it painting his stomach, a familiar sensation—late nights spent trying to unwind, or bored summer afternoons with nothing else to do. But it’s different like this: someone else is falling to pieces right in front of him, _because_ of him. The knowledge of it makes him flush and whine, humping helplessly against the back of Jinyoung’s hand, against the sharp bones of his knuckles, desperate for the same release.

Mark gasps against his neck, twitching with relentless little aftershocks.

“God,” he whispers, slowing down and then stopping, angling his hips away, sensitive. “Bambam,” he says again, licking his lips, the focus returning to his eyes. He glances down at the mess he’s made of Bambam’s skin and goes a little ashen, his throat working in cold realization.

Jinyoung takes his hand back. Mark’s eyes snap to follow the motion, fixed on a point over Bambam’s shoulder.

Bambam can feel Jinyoung getting to his feet behind him. He tries to stomp down on the irrational feeling of being abandoned, the absence of the warmth at his back, the hands on his body. He has to force himself to remember that the boy those hands belonged to had kicked him and hit him just minutes ago, but it doesn’t seem that important when his dick is straining in his jeans, when all he can think about is someone letting him come, because he can’t do it alone like this, he can’t.

Jinyoung walks around behind Mark. He’s licking his hand, like a cat. Bambam’s gut twists frantically and he exhales, eyes wide, mouth cotton-dry. “J-Jinyoung,” he croaks. Bambam’s gaze drops from his mouth to his groin, where Jinyoung’s cock is pressing heavy and obvious against the inseam of his dark jeans.

“Hyung,” Jinyoung corrects him lazily. He sucks his sticky thumb into his mouth and pulls off with a pop. Bambam’s dick throbs. “Jinyoung-hyung,” Bambam repeats, so quietly he might not have said it at all. He closes his eyes and swallows to wet his throat. His heart is beating so quickly, it feels like it’d run away from him if it could. This is so wrong. He can't think. He just _wants._

There’s a sweet, gentle press of lips against his cheek. Mark. Bambam opens his eyes to see him drawing back, Jinyoung’s hand gripping his nape.

“Bambam,” says Jinyoung, faux-concerned. “You didn’t get to finish.”

He inhales shakily. He’s not sure how to answer. He’s not sure he can.

“Do you want Mark-hyung to suck you off?”

Bambam stares at him.

“Like this?” Jinyoung says.

He turns Mark’s face to the side, hand splayed possessively against his cheek. Mark’s mouth drops open of its own accord, tongue peeking out; he gazes up at Jinyoung, something dark and glittering in his eyes. Bambam’s blood thuds and crashes in his veins. This is so messed up. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be watching this, shouldn’t be a part of it.

He thinks about Mark’s come, drying on his stomach, and feels a fresh, desperate sob bubble up in the back of his throat. Too late.

“I,” he says, completely overwhelmed, blinking slowly, “I—”

Jinyoung rolls his hips against Mark’s slack mouth. He curls a hand at nape of his neck, guides Mark’s lips to the line of his cock, trapped tight against the crease of his hip, and holds him there. Mark doesn’t struggle. He just opens his mouth and licks at it, flat-tongued strokes that get the denim sticky and damp.

Jinyoung’s eyes flutter. For a second, his cold exterior cracks open, just a hair: there’s something there, just beneath, an echo of emotion. Mark is looking up at him, eyes shiny-bright. Determined.

The desire to come is suffocating, coating Bambam’s thoughts in gummy hot molasses. He wants to watch this go on—if he could only _touch_ himself, instead—but he wants Mark’s mouth on him more. Wants—wants to feel his lips. His throat. Kiss him again.

Jinyoung murmurs, “I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” Bambam forces out. “ _Please._ Hyung.”

He doesn’t know if he means Mark or Jinyoung. He imagines, suddenly, fucking Jinyoung’s gorgeous mouth instead, and convulses under a fresh, awful wave of arousal.

“Thought you might,” Jinyoung says. He shoves Mark down in front of Bambam, bending him forward. Bambam shuffles back to give him room, wincing as the gravel digs painfully into his ruined knees. But then Mark is staring up at him, lips swollen, with that same look—that strange, fierce shine to his eyes. Slowly, in increments, his gaze ticks downward to fix on Bambam’s tented jeans.

“Mark,” Bambam whimpers.

“ _Mark,_ ” Jinyoung mocks softly.

Mark smiles, faintly, like it’s okay, like it’s fine. It’s not. It’s not fine, but Bambam can’t bring himself to care, not when Mark is dipping his head to fit his mouth gently around the head of his cock, right over the denim—just like he did for Jinyoung.

The muted heat is almost too much. Bambam mewls and folds over Mark’s head, trying to pump his hips up against the damp, silky pressure. He wishes, wildly, that he could undo his pants, like Jinyoung did for Mark. He twists his wrists behind himself, the plastic ties biting into his skin.

“I can't,” he gasps, lifting his head to look at Jinyoung. “Hyung, help.”

Jinyoung squats down between them. He pets Mark’s head as he laps at Bambam’s dick, tenderly brushing the hair out of his eyes.

“Aish,” he says. “Useless.”

He taps the bottom of Mark’s chin to get him to back off, then reaches for Bambam’s belt.

His zipper comes down. The pressure eases. Jinyoung’s fingers curl around him and nudge him out of his briefs, shoving them down just past his hips. Bambam chokes on a moan as Jinyoung trails a fingernail up a vein and flicks cruelly at the head, chuckling when it jumps and leaks against Bambam’s unzipped jeans, crumpled alongside his pointy hipbones.

He imagines Jinyoung rubbing him there. For hours, maybe, keeping him on edge. He imagines Jinyoung brutally jerking him off instead of knocking him to the floor. A tight fist shoved down the front of his jeans, quick and ruthless, right outside of class—caging him to the wall, kissing his throat. Making him feel good, instead of emptying his bag out onto the ground, leaving him with broken glasses and scraped up hands.

Does it make him sick, to want that?

Mark bends forward again. Jinyoung’s hand is caught in his hair, guiding him down.

“Oh, f-fuck,” Bambam whispers. The first touch of Mark’s wet tongue shoots through him like a bullet. Little shocks of ecstasy explode up his spine.

He bites down hard on his lip, watching, and then Mark takes him in all the way.

Bambam moans; Mark’s mouth is a searing, perfectly constricting heat. He bobs, up and down, pacing himself, but Bambam is already so close, it doesn’t matter.

“Oh,” he gasps, over and over. “Oh, oh my god, oh please, oh _please_ —”

“That's it,” Jinyoung says. So sweet, so calm. Bambam doesn’t know who he means. He pretends it’s for him.

Mark pulls back and drags the flat of his tongue up with him. He only has to suckle sweetly on the head for a moment before it’s too much: Bambam’s balls are drawing up tight, his hips straining forward. “Gonna come,” he whimpers, the muscles in his thighs struggling to keep him upright. “I’m—I’m gonna come, Mark—”

Mark’s head is suddenly yanked away, the velvet heat of his mouth gone, but it’s enough: Bambam trembles all over, teeters violently on the edge—cries out a wordless moan, convulses, goes over. He comes in thick spurts across Mark’s lips and cheeks, the tender hollow between his collarbones.

Bambam’s chest heaves. The unforgiving haze of arousal ebbs slowly, the tide of it releasing him from its grip in gnawing waves. But Mark’s face stays the same: beautiful, with apologetic, liquid eyes, clouded up with something shamefully animal. Strands of fluid caught in his hair, streaked across his chin. Bambam’s fault.

Jinyoung. Right there. Watching. No—Jinyoung’s fault.

The reality of what he’s just done hits him like a slap.

His thoughts all collide at once. If anyone—if Jinyoung ever—he’s going to have to move back to Thailand, his mother is going to be so disappointed, and if she finds out why, she’ll hate him, everyone will hate him. He won't be able to erase this. If it gets out— _fuck_. Fuck. Bambam’s throat closes up, his breath hitches. A hot sting starts behind his eyes. This is so much worse than just getting beaten up. He wishes Jinyoung would’ve just hit him. He wouldn’t have liked that. Wouldn’t have begged for it.

A hand cards through his hair. Gentle, almost soporific, the way it cradles his skull. It’s the hand Mark came on. Bambam hates the shiver that goes through him, hates the way his body wants to respond, again, so soon. He looks up at Jinyoung and can’t help the mortifying bloom of heat in his gut when Jinyoung _smiles_ at him, eyes whiskering handsomely at the corners.

It’s not even a kind smile.

His thumb finds Bambam’s bottom lip, skims across it. A faint, bitter residue. “You were so selfish with Mark," he says. "I’m feeling left out.”

The breath compresses in Bambam's lungs.

Mark starts forward immediately. “Let me,” he says, eyes darting to Bambam.

Mark’s so nice. Too nice for this. Bambam should feel relieved, but he doesn’t. He's frozen at the suggestion of it. And wondering, too, if he'd like it as much.

He watches Mark, instead. The way Jinyoung touches his cheek, smearing through a faint sheen of fluid, as Mark takes him in his mouth. Gentle, almost.

He watches, while Jinyoung looks down at him with an intense, unreadable expression—the same one from earlier, from outside the classroom, an icy, bloodless evisceration. Eventually his eyes slide closed, lips parting: he fists a hand in Mark’s hair and forces him down, uttering a low groan. Mark gags, squirms, tries to pull off, but Jinyoung holds him there—coming, Bambam realizes, right down Mark’s throat. When he lets Mark go, Mark rears back with a gasp, trying to catch his breath; come drips messily from his open mouth and onto the ground.

The air is still and cold. Jinyoung tucks himself away. Nobody speaks; it’s like they’re all frozen in time, in the static aftermath. Jinyoung must want to capture it, because at first he just studies Mark, considering, and then he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. He takes a picture of Mark kneeling there on the ground, viscous saliva smeared all down his chin, Bambam’s come drying on his bruised face.

He turns to Bambam, takes his picture too. Bambam watches him do it as if from far away. Some point outside of himself.

It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.

“Don’t tell,” he pleads. His eyes sting again, hot against the winter chill. “Please don’t.”

Jinyoung puts his phone away and doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches down and produces something silver from his boot, flicking it open. A balisong. Fear crashes through Bambam, first hot, then cold; the adrenaline froths back up in his veins. But Jinyoung only uses it to cut the ties from their wrists—Mark first, then Bambam, tossing them to the side with a faint plastic clatter. When he’s done, he pats Bambam’s cheek in a parody of fondness, thumbing away the salty liquid at the corners of his eyes.

As if an afterthought, he retrieves a few crumpled bills from his jacket and tucks them into Bambam’s front pocket. “For the show,” he says, smiling. “But you should probably use it for a ride home. See you at school.”

Then he walks away.

Bambam struggles to his feet. It’s hard to stand after being on his knees for so long. He can't look at Mark. Can’t look anywhere. His hands are shaking with faint, tiny tremors; he fumbles his belt buckle closed, undoes his tie all the way and uses it to wipe Mark’s come off his stomach. The lines on his wrists from the plastic ties are beginning to bruise; he’ll have to cover them up tomorrow for school, so people don’t ask. Not that they would.

Mark says, voice rough, “I'm sorry,” like that helps anything. What's Bambam supposed to say to that—it's not your fault Jinyoung is crazy? No, _I’m_ sorry? I'm sorry he made you suck my dick, I'm sorry I came on your face? I'm sorry I liked it?

“Are you okay?” asks Mark.

Bambam stares at the ground. “I don't know,” he says. He means: _no._ “I just wanna go home.”

He doesn't mean back to his apartment. But that’s where he has to go. A small empty space with an old rice cooker and fruit flies, and pairs and pairs of broken glasses in a rickety desk drawer.

“Me too,” says Mark. He wipes his face off with his sleeve and spits onto the rocks near the stream.

The silence is awful. The sting of humiliation is worse. Bambam presses the heels of his palms angrily against his eyes.

“Are you?” asks Bambam suddenly. The urge to be polite, to ask, even now, is absurd. He glances up. Mark’s knees are scraped bloody, his mouth puffy and raw-looking. “Okay, I mean.”

It’s a dumb question. Mark shrugs. Bambam feels like laughing; of course Mark’s not okay.

He doesn’t know what to say to make it better. There’s nothing he can say, absolutely nothing, that will: but the heavy quiet weighs on him, so he has to say _something._

“I—I don’t hate you,” is what he goes with. _For liking me._ For doing what Jinyoung told him to. It’s not a lie. It might actually be too honest. He swallows. The next part is harder to say. “Do you hate me?”

Mark looks at him. “No,” he says, after a moment. He offers a small, faint smile, and Bambam returns it.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay. Good.”

He glances out toward the road. Bare, spindly tree branches wave back at him, jostled by a cold breeze. It’s getting dark. Nobody wants to be outside in weather like this, so nobody is; it's just them. He crouches to gather his spilled books and papers, shoving them back into his bag, and Mark bends to help him.

"No, it's okay, you don't have to—" he starts, but Mark stops him with a light touch to his wrist.

"I want to," he says.

Bambam doesn't argue. They stand up together, when it's done; Bambam slings his pack over his shoulder, and Mark rubs his hands together to warm them. It's almost like nothing ever happened at all. Like they just took a detour, instead.

“We didn’t get to walk together,” he says. It upsets him more, now, than it would have if—it weren't for Jinyoung. But Mark just touches his elbow, soft, and nods to the path up to the road, and the nearby bus stop.

“We still can,” he says.

"Yeah," says Bambam. "Okay."

 

 


End file.
